Memoirs

//Mountain Ties//

//By Holly Kimble//

The prairie has always beckoned to me, although mountain country runs deep in my blood. As a child, I grew up surrounded by the Flint Creek Mountains; they were practically in our backyard. Growing up, I never took the mountains for granted; they are a part of my childhood, as I am a part of the place. Mountains are magnetic, their mystery, their rugged peaks, their dimensions are never dull. If one is quiet, mountains contain a history; if stories are not told, they age with the rock, the evergreen, and become a part of the landscape. Their voices become unknown, yet the mountains remain. There is the story of my ancestors, who settled in the gold-mining town of Pioneer in 1894 as German immigrants. Pioneer was already an active mining town and during its height boasted nearly 3000 people in the area. Martin and Anna Wohlers immigrated and began a legacy in the Flint Creek Mountains. They brought with them hard work, strong character, and the tenacity to settle in a rugged, rural area. My great-grandparents were shorter than 5’ tall, yet pictures of Martin convey a man of strength in his upper-body. He was a blacksmith in Pioneer and he also worked the mining dredge pouring mercury during the processing of gold. There is the story of my great-grandmother, Anna, whom drove a buggy to Deer Lodge taking gold the prospectors had mined, hoping to not be overtaken by vigilantes or robbers. Anna’s drive was over twenty-five miles through rugged country, yet this action conveys a courageous spirit. There is the story of Martin and Anna’s three children. Gretchen was an only daughter, a post-mistress, who owned and operated a general store from 1910-1918. She was the first woman in Pioneer to own and operate a business. Like any mining town, it slowly died and by 1920, the town, Pioneer withered away. The mountains must have held them and kept the Wohlers family in this place. Claus, my grandfather, purchased land to homestead with his parents. He went to Germany and fought in World War I for the United States. Claus would come back to Montana, to his homestead; the mountains calling his name and his love for wild horses. He bred, broke, and ran over 200 head of horses for several years. Perhaps the wild spirit of horses mirrored his reckless nature. Claus was known for his free spirit; a miner, a bootlegger, a cowboy, a rancher were his past-times. His energy came from the mountains. Richard, a younger brother by fifteen years, was a family favorite. Together two brothers divided 2,000 acres of wild, prairie, and grazing land along the valley of the Flint Creek Mountains. Both started cattle ranches. Both worked outside the ranch to support growing families. There is the story of my father, Joe, who was Claus’s second son in a second marriage. My dad became a part of the ranch, the land, and the mountains. He fished, hunted, rodeoed at a young age, learning about the mountains. He attended the two-room school house Gold Creek, saw both parents die before age thirteen, moved in with his two sisters to his uncle Richard’s house, graduated from high school, then met and married my mom, Jan. For two years my parents lived in towns, dad logged and did other work. But the quick-paced life was not for him, the mountains must have spoke to dad, calling him back as they financed and bought the ranch from his family. He lived, worked, ranched, and breathed the mountain air nearly all of his thirty-four years of life. There is the story of my dad’s mining accident, which brought tragedy to the rural community. But my mom stayed, perhaps for all our young family to heal, and some of that healing came from a familiar place. She grabbed her source of strength from the mountains like an anchor. Today, she continues to climb Mt. John, a small butte, behind our home. On top of that butte, one sees the valley and one becomes entranced with the mountains. Here she finds peace and renewal. There is the story of Dave, a man from Minnesota, who grew up in the Twin Cities, but desired to live in the West. A tragedy happened; he lost his first wife. A twelve-year old girl, Holly, invited Dave over for waffles one wintry night. During a time of desperation with cracked hands caused from cold weather working cows and both with cracked spirits, my mom and Dave found renewed hope and new love to share. My parents continue to repair fences, run cattle, cut hay, weather hard and long winters, they remain entrapped by the mountains. There is the story of my sister and I who learned to drive a truck while hay bales were cut off the back, and how to steer calves into chutes during branding. We attended the same two-room school house as our father. We learned about the mysteries of the mountains, we discovered mountain lakes, abandoned cabins, explored the mining ghost town of Pioneer, only three miles from our home. We heard stories about our heritage and our ties to this place.

The mountains have witnessed the legacy of my family. Their pioneer spirit and hard work, more than a century of stories recorded. Although these mountains change with the patterns of seasons, they remain the same. The landscape is steadfast, yet the family legacy that was molded has changed with the passage of time. These stories are only glimpses; the mountains know the depths of them. The mountains speak youth, they speak memories, they are an eternal spirit...a part of me.

Mrs. Carpenter by Shelley Addis I still remember Mrs. Carpenter. She was the teacher who greeted me on my first day of school at the entrance of Pleasantview Elementary, the brand new red brick building where I would spend the next five years. She greeted me in much the same way every day of first grade, with the soft spoken and kind manner that became her trademark, welcoming students into her classroom where they would thrive in their first school experience. My contact with Esther Carpenter did not stop when the bell rang on the last day of first grade. Although I was no different than any other six year-old who was anticipating all that the summer would bring, I recall not being able to pull myself away from her that last day. I remember thinking of all sorts of things I might have forgotten or needed to tell her. Finally, it was my mom who understood and gently coaxed me out the door with the comforting idea of “stopping by to visit” after school to tell her about my new class adventures the following year. That is just what I did, only not the following year but for each year I attended Pleasantview, dropping in now and then, to tell her about what I had been doing and to check out “my” classroom and the changes that were inevitable, sometimes silently disapproving and often feeling a little envious of that year’s first graders. If I was asked to choose one influence on my career choice, it would be this teacher. Not because she was particularly dynamic, quite the contrary, but because she believed in kids and we knew it. Years later, while getting some summer hours at Friends University, I happened to be in the office when two elderly ladies came in. They were quietly chatting with each other and with the secretary. My friend and I were immediately drawn into the conversation which moved from the remodeling of the nearby apartments where they lived, to the mail they came there daily to retrieve. For some reason, I felt an odd familiarity with these women, one in particular. Initially, I believed it to be their kind and soft spoken manner, their greeting to everyone who entered the room and, then, as though it came out of the past, it hit me and I asked…”Is your name Esther Carpenter?” Of course, it was her. On some level, I had known her the moment I saw her. We shared memories of those days and, again, I found myself telling her all about the adventures in my new classroom, only this time I was the teacher and it was largely because of her.

The Magician by Shelley Addis She sang as she diligently labored over what would become her latest creation from the small kitchen she spent much of her day in. She always did, sang that is, not with the powerful mezzo soprano that, quite honestly, totally embarrassed and caused me to shrink a little in the pew each Sunday morning while she belted out every hymn, as though singing to God himself. On this warm summer afternoon I was the designated cook’s assistant and thrilled with the privilege. I had been desperately hoping there would be time after the cake with burnt sugar icing for something with meringue, so I could audience her most amazing culinary feat. I got my wish. She would carefully pull the sunshine yellow, vinyl and chrome dinette chair out into the middle of the kitchen where, taking the striped mixing bowl full of egg whites fresh that morning and, armed with that eggbeater, she begin to crank. I can clearly see my grandmother now, white hair piled high on her head, always serving as the crowning glory of her five foot, 220 pound frame, straddling that bowl as though it was attempting a getaway. There she balanced, legs crossed at the laces of her sturdy, brown orthopedic oxfords. Her floral housedress was protected by a mismatched apron, this was before it was fashionably acceptable to mix patterns, and her hose were rolled down just below her knees, the custom on weekdays. Waiting with impatient anticipation for the magic, I sat at her feet, occasionally taking a turn beating the frothiness until my young arms grew weary and I wondered how she ever managed to turn the handle of that contraption for so long. As she worked, we sang together just the first verse of “Jesus Loves Me”, one of her favorites, before moving on to “Down by the Old Mill Stream” which was a carry over from my grandfather’s barber shop quartet days and a mainstay in our menu of musical selections. At once, the racket of the eggbeater stopped as suddenly as it had begun. “Is it time,” I pleaded, “is it time?” I knew the answer would not be any different than it was on any other day in the kitchen on these occasions and we’d have to wait and see. So, up on one knee and then the other, I waited as she carefully tapped the beater on the side of the bowl as though she was afraid of breaking it. When she saw that she had sufficiently managed to jar as much of the stiff foam from the utensil, not to waste any, she reached over and laid it on the matching yellow table where she had placed an embroidered towel to avoid any mess. The performance began. With the soles of both shoes now placed firmly on the floor, she released the bowl from in between her knees, lifted it up and gently tipped it to one side. She peaked around its edge as though she was afraid of what she might see. Now taking the place of the bowl between her knees with my hands resting on one, I looked up as she carefully tipped the ceramic container over a little further, then a little more. I noticed she was looking more at me than the mysterious white mixture that was the star of the show. With one smooth gesture, the bowl was suddenly upside down and the egg whites suspended along with it, not budging, hanging in mid-air! How was this possible? Could there be another kid as lucky as me? It was like having Mr. Wizard right here in the little house on south Hydraulic. I couldn’t ask for more, except for a piece of that cake cooling on top of the stove.

By Melanie Bitler
 * Mary**
 * Mary**

A small woman, not imposing in stature, she and I have always been close and except for my time at college have lived in the same town. Hardly a day goes by when I do not talk to her at least once on the phone. She has always been my strongest supporter from attending band concerts to editing research papers. She held my right hand when my daughter was born. She is my mother, Mary.

Mary is a registered nurse (RN) and, as biased as my opinion may be, a darn good one. She had worked at the hospital my whole life. A sterile smell clung to her clothes when she came home each day. Over 32 years of nursing, Mom developed quite a positive reputation; our small community exuded respect for her. Nancy, an extremely close personal friend to us both had been the hospital administrator at one time and had even promoted Mother to interim Director of Nursing (DON).

On August 17, 2000, I set forth on my teaching career determined to be as caring and dedicated to my pupils as my mother was to her patients. Naturally, at the end of my first day of teaching she would be my first phone call. A terrific listener, Mom took my tale all in not airing her own predicament until I had finished.

Then she shared with me her difficulty with a new boss. During her 13-year stint as DON, Mom witnessed Nancy, as well as other administrators, come and go. The new administrator, an outsider to our town, had informed my mother of his dislike for her leadership style. He planned to demote or fire her and left the choice up to her. Weighing her options and deciding that it would be best for everyone if she did not just step down but left, she strode into his office the next morning and out for the last time as Mary Kurtz, DON.

The uncertainties were not over. With indomitable courage at the age of 53 my mother went job hunting. She worried about insurance and decided to have some much- needed tests done before her hospital-paid insurance ran out. The following October she went in for a heart catheter and once again broke the daunting news to me. She was scheduled for a necessary open-heart surgery… the next morning. I sobbed irrationally for over 60 miles with a lump in my throat and all-consuming fear. What if she did not make it? I could not live without my Mommy. I still need her. I did not deserve to lose the foundation of my whole support system. It just could not happen.

It did not. Mom came out of surgery one of the most horrible sights I have ever observed. My mother’s putrid greenish-yellow figure with no glasses and mussed hair thrashing in the bed still somewhat sedated and certainly not in her right mind was almost more terrifying than pacing with my father during the eternal surgery.

Mary never strayed from her optimism and hope throughout the entire firing and job-hunting episode or the surgery and recovery process. I learned from these events that things happen for a reason. After all, being fired saved my mother’s life. Her guidance has made me realize God is always with us floating in our hearts like a balloon in the air. Recently when my dad was diagnosed with cancer, this faith-filled woman announced that our problems would definitely work out; she knew they would because she had glimpsed a rainbow, a sign of God’s promise.

She possesses determination, dignity, fortitude, resourcefulness, faith and humor. She is my friend, my confidant. I admire her. She inspires me. She is my mother, Mary.

The Back Forty

The land and man’s relationship to it has always been a part of American culture. The land is a provider and a solace to the world weary. My father, a farm boy, by the simple act of transplanting my city-bred mother and myself to a Missouri farm in the fifties started my love affair with the land. The rural life appealed to me, filled me with awe, and embracing it will all my being I even loved daily chores. I was in love, but I should have known as in all love affairs the devotion is a bit one-sided and road to bliss bumpy.

The first small omens of trouble were simple enough. I couldn’t grow a bean. Well, actually I grew beans but the pod never filled, and flowers wilted as they sought the sun. The tractor would never start for me, and washing cream separators is not exactly romantic. I told Mom the cream would rise to the top, but she never believed me.

There were other portents that my desire to live the rural life would be a struggle. My mother believed that farms should show a profit (an idea I now believe to be a severe delusion!). Nothing on our place died if Mom could nurse it, and I mean nothing. Not even six piglets which the mother had no milk for. So Mom and I bottle raised them which I can assure you was an uncommon feat. For some reason those pigs bonded with me; I was their mother. On our place the nursery rhyme went, “Mary had some little pigs and everywhere that Mary went…” Well, you know the rest. They walked me to the school bus every morning and met me with snuffling delight at night. Market day was a relief for this freshman girl, though to tell the truth, pork did not touch my lips for nearly a year.

Another time Mom decided no farmyard was complete without a rooster; so she proceeded to look for one. A kindly neighbor donated one for our flock of ninety or so hens. He was beautiful—rose-combed, gloriously tail-feathered, and spurred. He was also a ninja warrior who protected his territory. Any egg laid in his henhouse was his, and by god it was going to hatch! Gathering eggs became warfare and required armor. Wearing Dad’s hip waders, gloves, and wishing for a football helmet, I’d enter the henhouse only to have Cockle-do leap at me spurs first. It ended when Mom gathered the eggs while I was sick.

Mom also bought a mated pair of geese. Huge beautiful geese that moved with stately grace around the farmyard. That Christmas someone stole our gander. In the spring eggs were duly laid, and Mom refused to ignore them. It was my task to gather them and feed them to the cats. At the sight of me within five feet of the nest, mother goose would spread her wings, lower her neck, and attack hissing. To this day air escaping from a tire makes me jump.

We left the farm when Dad got a good non-farm job, but the love of rural life remained hidden in the recesses of my soul. During college and graduate school I rarely thought of the farm, but I am sure this love of the land led me to take a position teaching in a rural area. And yes, you guessed it. I met a farmer. So because love is blind and my warfare with all things rural was nearly forgotten when my knight in levis proposed, I accepted.

It began right away—the curious ability of farm life to make my life harrowing. He barely made the wedding as he had to make a thirty mile side trip to pick up a combine part on the way to the ceremony.

Once in mid-January, hubby grabbed me from in front of a warm fire, shoved me coatless out the door near a cow lot gate. Two heifers had left the lot as he fed. As he went to herd them to the gate in a ninety mile wind and blowing snow, he shouted encouraging advice, “Be quiet and don’t shiver or you’ll never get them in the gate.”

Several years later the hired girl and I searched for hours for a first calf heifer. Finally near dusk we found her hiplocked and the halfborn calf being attacked by coyotes. Carol turned green, but we delivered the corpse. The cow survived, always a plus. Riding back home Carol broke the silence with this profound thought, “Really makes you think about what a quick trip to the backseat could lead to.” I decided not to reply.

All our children were born during wheat harvest. Is there subtle symbolism in this? Sara was born at the height of harvest—the last day in fact. Only twenty acres were left. I think it went something like this:

“Hon, I think we better go to the hospital now.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, NOW!”

“Can’t it wait until I cut those last twenty acres?”

Needless to say this is one argument that I won.

Being pregnant on the farm is a challenge once but doing it three times requires a definite sanity check. I’ve climbed windmills five months along, toted field meals between contractions. Once elephant-sized at seven months I was called on to help sort sows. Again at my gate position I held my own until my brother-in-law said something to me. Distracted I missed a sow. She, however, did not miss me. She went through my legs, but I lodged mid-sow. Frightened by her unexpected passenger she went through the gate at break-neck pace. Ever considerate Bud hollered, “Can you get OFF? She is expecting!”

Yes, the land calls me. I love its grasses, the sunsets, and the peacefulness of rural life. And one of these days the land will relent, declare a truce, and let me enjoy all its beauties.

Mary DeVries



Good Girls Do Not Wear Patent Shoes

The school was a grey brick three story with a central staircase and a chapel on the ground floor. The new semi-cathedral would come much later. The big project of my tenure as a student at St. T’s was the bathroom remodeling, and I remember how upset the nuns were at the urinals left standing in the hall. Nuns? Yes, nuns. This is a memory of the “good girls do not wear patent shoes” era of Catholic schools, which is odd as my family is a Protestant majority, but that in itself has nothing to do with the memory—other than to partly explain why it probably remains so clear.

We had to sneak behind the school to commit our sin. Well, sneak is probably hyperbole and we aren’t really sure it was a sin. But we were sure Sister Adelaide would not approve and that sent delicious icy-fingered guilt shivers up and down our spines. Fun was always more fun tinged with the spice of mild misconduct. Once behind the school we’d play handsie (you know, paper, stone, scissors) to determine who would commit the sacrilege that day. Winning added an extra dollop of excitement because, if we were caught, the winner would really feel the switch. Or so we thought.

After the winner was chosen, we girls would begin our private mass. The winner, of course, was the priest which is why males were banned. After all, thanks to God, boys could become real priests.

The high point of the mass was communion—a wine-less one to be sure but that didn’t stop us. We had hosts—large flat Necco wafers. Remember them—tasteless sugar disks in orange, lemon, mint, chocolate and licorice? You can’t chew the hosts; so we’d let them lie in a circle on our tongues like flavored glue until they were gone with only the sweet sticky aftertaste remaining. Sometimes if we ate quickly, we’d take communion a second time but that was really risky.

Of course it had to end and it did. I’d won that day and so intent was I on elevating the host correctly with thumb and forefinger, I did not see Sister Adelaide. But the serge swish of her habit and the wooden click of her beads broke my concentration. My hands trembled, and the wafer dropped. Mary Ellen began to cry, and Kathleen crossed her legs. I remember thinking, “She’s going to wet her pants.” But she didn’t.

“Girls, come inside,” sister intoned. Slowly we followed her—heads down, feet shuffling, hearts thudding, to the chapel. This was serious. We knew Father Kaz talked to problems in the chapel. Our game was now sin with a capital “S.” We were worried. In fact we were petrified with fear. What had our little game led to? Would confession help? We sat in the hard oak pew and waited.

Kathleen turned white, Mary Ellen sat wide-eyed, and I, rebel Protestant, wondered if their God knew my God. My palms were wet, my mouth parched, my eyes burned but I refused to show my terror. Sister paced the aisle regarding us, she sighed, went to the altar rail, knelt and prayed. Then she turned and began to relate how she, too, had envied priests and it was the first step toward her vocation. She hoped we, too, would follow that path and that I would attend chapel by choice not because the whole school went. Afterwards she sent us off to class bewildered. Now we knew we were no longer sinners but probable saints in the making. We never played the game again.

Mary DeVries



By: Amy Valentas It was a stressful time when my sixteen-year-old sister, Molly, confessed to me; she was pregnant and her boyfriend did not want to be involved in the child’s life. Being a mom of two, I knew how difficult it was raising a family at 28 with a husband. I could not imagine raising a child alone, but my sister believed she could do this. Therefore, I felt I needed to support her during this nine-month process. The journey began in November, 2002 right before Thanksgiving. My sister’s face was glowing with happiness and she enjoyed the emotional and physical changes she was going through. Molly continued to attend high school and to work as many shifts as possible at Lone Star Steakhouse to save money for her new bundle of joy. Molly religiously went to her monthly doctor visits and kept herself and the baby healthy by eating right and exercising on a regular basis. At one of her visits, the doctor informed her it was time for an ultrasound and she needed to decide if she wanted to know the gender of the baby. Of course, my sister did. During the examination, the doctor informed Molly that her baby was healthy. After all the measurements were complete, the doctor announced, “It is a girl!” I was so elated for her, but a little jealous. I always dreamed of having a daughter, but my husband and I decided two boys were plenty with our busy schedules. Eight months expired and the final month of pregnancy arrived. During August, my sister and I organized a baby shower for the new mom-to-be, my mother arranged a beautiful nursery for her new granddaughter, and we all waited patiently for my sister to say those famous words, “It is time. Take me to the hospital.” I received a phone call around 6:30 a.m. on August 27, 2003, from my mother declaring my niece was ready to make an appearance in this world. For some unknown reason, I felt I needed to be present for the birth. Therefore, I scurried out of bed and drove quickly to Saint Joseph’s Hospital in Joliet, Illinois. I am glad I did! My mother needed to go to work and would be back shortly, but my sister’s little angle decided to arrive before grandma returned. The baby’s head was crowning and my sister needed to begin pushing so, I became Molly’s birthing coach and about two hours later, we experienced the miracle of life together. Tears rolled down my face when I saw Lily for the first time, but complications arose and the doctors rushed her out of the room. The doctor finally returned with some information and informed us Lily was having difficulty breathing and needed to be in ICU for at least a week. I stayed at the hospital until the test results came back with reassuring news. Days went by and my sister and niece were doing very well. The doctor released Molly that afternoon. Lily was able to join her mother at home three days later. Lily’s arrival home was overwhelming. Many family members, neighbors, and friends greeted the little angel. My sister was excited that others wanted to see her new precious gift. After awhile, the crowd dwindled down and Lily was able to eat and take a well-deserved rest. My sister soon followed. After five weeks, things became more difficult for the single parent. I tried to reassure her that being a mom does not come with directions and she needed to work through the hard times and without giving up. My mother, sister, and I helped with Lily as much as we could, but we all had other responsibilities to take care of. One day while I was at work, my sister left me a message to visit her later that evening. After school, I picked up my children from daycare and we headed to see Lily. When I arrived at the house, my sister and mother were sitting at the kitchen table while Lily was sleeping in her car seat. As soon as I entered, I could feel the tension surrounding the room and my sister’s face was puffy as if she had been crying for hours. Before I could ask any questions, my sister sat me down and thanked me for all of the wonderful things I have provided for her and Lily. She proceeded to explain her doubts about being a mom and felt she could not provide her daughter with the essential things in life. My mother sat at the table without saying a word. I felt nothing but pure anger. I have given so much of my time and energy to make sure my sister and her child received the best care while I put my own family on hold. Molly proceeded to tell me the adoption agency was on their way to take Lily to a foster home and she would begin searching for the perfect family tomorrow. In the heat of the discussion, I proclaimed, “I want to be Lily’s mom! I can give her the perfect home.” My sister was reluctant at first, but when the agency representative arrived at the door, I begged my sister to let me have her. The social worker sat down with us and discussed the pros and cons for this type of situation. After an hour, my sister surrendered her parental rights and allowed me to raise Lily as my own. My mom and I packed up Lily’s belongings and jammed everything into my minivan. My sister said her good-byes and the boys and I headed home with the new member of our family. My husband, Bill, was at home when I walked in the door with Lily. He assumed we were babysitting her for the evening. I explained to him the situation and the conversation I had with my sister at my mom’s house. At first, he was shocked, confused, and upset but was willing to take on this challenge. He too, loved this little girl and could not allow another family to raise her. The adoption process went on for two, long years and we encountered many obstacles along the way, but I am happy to say I have my own “little angel” and her name is Lillian Rose Valentas.
 * __My Little Angel__**

__The Dance__ By: Amy Valentas

“Butterfly Kisses” is a song played at my wedding on May 25, 1997. My father and I danced to this emotional song while the guests danced around the outside and cried along with us. This song discusses the life time moments between a daughter and her father. On November 8, 2005, alcoholism took my father's life. While I planned his funeral, this song came on the radio and brought back the wonderful memories my father and I shared. My sisters and I decided to play “Butterfly Kisses” at the church after we read the poem we wrote for our dad. Again, everyone in the church cried and my cry for my “daddy” seemed to be the loudest. The memories my father and I shared stopped in the year 1998 because of the discovery of his disease. The blame fell on me and he wanted the relationship to end. Therefore, it did. My father never interacted with his three grandchildren Will, 7, Scott 5, and Lily 2. For seven years, he chose the bottle instead of his family. I tried everything to get my father back, but he chose the one-way path toward destruction. Therefore, after many years of struggle and heartache, the last positive memory I have with my father was my wedding day and the last dance we would ever share together as father and daughter.

__A Life Changing Experience __by Amy Morrow

Yippee! It was my first visit home from college. It was the fall of 1989 and I was home for the Liberty High School season opener football game between the Blue Jays and the Center Hornets. The weekend would be spent reminiscing with high school friends who were also home from college. I would spend my time trekking through the stands of William Jewell College’s Cardinal Field conversing with people from the class of ’89 and ’90. Those who were close to me in high school, and those who never uttered a word to me, would be curious about what Northeast Missouri State University was like and whether or not Kirksville, Missouri was exciting. I would have to disappoint them by admitting that my time was spent studying, instead of nightlife, due to the lack of social opportunities that Kirksville offered its students. The weekend was filled with non-stop fun as I revisited “old haunts” with my closest friends. You might say that it was the perfect visit home from college. Sunday afternoon arrived and it was time for me to spend time with my parents. After all, their house was my sleeping quarters for the weekend and I hadn't spent much time with them. I remember the moment in which my life began changing. Sitting in lawn chairs with my parents in the front of our house, we were talking about life since I had gone away to college. Laughter and stories were being shared when my mother looked at my dad and said, “Should we run it by her?” So I replied, “Go ahead!” I was thinking to myself, how bad can it be? I was not prepared for what my dad said next. My dad proceeded to tell me that he had been offered a job in Denver, Colorado. Out of my mouth came the following words, “Go. Take the offer. I’m at college. You can’t pass up this opportunity!” My parents didn’t think that the move would occur quickly, and they thought that my mom would be in Liberty, until my brother graduated from high school. I left for college feeling that my parents would be around for awhile, and I would be given the chance to say my “goodbyes” and feel more comfortable with the “big move”. Then the life changing call came. My mom informed me that our house had sold and they would be moving around Thanksgiving. All of a sudden, I realized that I was soon going to be alone in Missouri. There would be no more weekend visits from college for me. I would now have to drive hours to be with family. My feelings were conflicted, as I was feeling scared and upset for my situation, I was also feeling elated for the new opportunity being provided to my parents. There were many tearful phone calls to my parents as I worked through my emotions and trying to come to terms with the situation. I went home the weekend that they were preparing to move and savored each moment that I had with my family. After my brother’s high school graduation, he went off to the Army and I stayed at college. My family spent Christmas of ’91 together before my brother went off to be stationed in Germany. The family would not gather again, until my marriage in ’93.

Mixed Blessings

“He’s coming in with Sister DePores after Mass,” Mary Ellen Mcgovern whispered as she genuflected and slid beside me in the “Mary” pew. The Mary pew was ours because all seven Marys in my class at St. T’s always sat there during the daily pre-class mass. I attended, though protestant, because everybody else went. Titters of “What’s he like”, “Did you see him?”, “Did you know he’s from Czechoslovakia?” ran from one Mary to the other between bobbing multihued braids until Father Kazmerick began mass.

It seemed no time until mass was over and Father Kaz asked us to stay seated and we could hear the swish of wooden rosary beads against sister’s habit as her firm step brought her to the communion rail. No one, not even the seven Marys, dare turn our heads; she’d notice and her revenge was swifter and stricter than her Master’s.

My first impression of Father Ritz was his cassock. Long, black and stiffly starched, its edges were knife sharp. It had small ruffles precisely pleated and placed down the front of each side of the center row of buttons. After eight years of Father Kaz’ khakis and loud Hawaiian shirts, Father Ritz’ attire announced here was something different. That cassock spelled PRIEST in full caps.

Different he was. He had an iron will, and it was telegraphed by his ramrod stance and determined stride. Once decided on a course of action, he pursued it relentlessly. I was one of his few defeats—the only protestant in his confirmation class—he could neither convert nor remove me from his class.

But he was music. When he chanted the Kyrie or the Angus Dei, angel chords came forth. Even in the pre-school mass all twitters and giggles stopped as the wiggliest kindergarten student sat entranced. When he joined us in choir, we Marys thought we heard the flutter of angel wings and harps because the riches of his voice and faith were added to our willing but reedy uncertain notes.

And he was faith. One Friday looking for my book satchel I went down the chapel steps. The autumn afternoon gold came through the stained glass making mosaics of color on the oak pews and walls. He was there kneeling in the first pew, the Mary pew, and wooden rosary beads moved slowly through his slender steepled fingers. Their soft clacking and his whispered prayers were the only sounds in the chapel. He never heard my clamor as I retrieved the satchel and bounded up the stairs. Years later I have never forgotten those beads.

Mary DeVries

_ “Raising An Eagle”--prose

By Jeff H. Roper

Thank you Megan. You are a terrific young woman. You have given your mom and me tremendous joys in our life together. I’m listening to “Butterfly Kisses” by Bob Carlisle while I write this. Tears fill my eyes. I think about the moments of your life these past nineteen years.

You were precious when you were born with that black streak of hair. You wanted to sleep and we kept waking you up. I’ll not soon forget the first day of first grade. We had moved from Ft. Worth to Wichita. You didn’t know a soul. Your mom gave me the tough job. After I introduced you to the teacher and she introduced you to the class, then I turned to go. You grabbed hold of my leg with ferocity as if it were a life preserver thrown to you on the open turbulent ocean. I bent down to notice the terror on your face and talked you through it. You sat down next to the other kids. I left the room with tears and a heart which felt your bravery.

Years later I watched you on a family vacation in the mountains. Already a good soccer player, you thought you could run down a steep mountain in Breckenridge, Colorado. When you realized that you were completely out of control and could not stop, I watched your facial expression of absolute panic. You tumbled, you were bruised, you had some scraped skin—you eventually did come to a stop. You cried something awful, but I think mostly because of that feeling of complete fear.

I’ve been with you and your mom at so many soccer tournaments. As we drive into the soccer complex, we listen to Queen’s “We Will Rock You” followed by “Another One Bites the Dust” in order to pump you up. When you won, it was great; you re-played each goal and shared what you were thinking about throughout the game. You explained that part of the game which spectators do not see. However, when you lost, you made it clear that no one could talk. It was all silence and drama for about ten minutes.

You were a talented dancer. I loved being the dance dad, going to your recitals followed by handing you an assortment of flowers. You proved to be an awesome dance captain and soccer captain in high school. I remember our last Fellowship of Christian Students (FCS) club meeting together your senior year. The outside speaker (Randy) spoke about the importance of being an eagle in college. Ironically, you would become an Eastern Washington University eagle (their mascot).

I’m proud that we raised a young eagle, but there comes a time when your parents must watch that eagle leave the nest. The beautiful aspect of eagles, and you Megan, is that we get to watch you soar. And soar you have for this past year in the wide open air, the forested mountainous spaces known as “Big Sky” country. Keep soaring little one. __ This is a hoot! Dennis J. Kear
 * Author's comments:** Our writing prompt was to think about a song and what it triggers in you. We listened to "Butterfly Kisses", then wrote.

The joke in my family is dad smelling something or identifying what that strange odor may be. My wife regularly says, “do you smell that? or, what is that smell?” How do I answer? “What smell?” I say. Then I am greeted with laughter or frustration because I am not able to confirm that some smell has invaded our house.

My taster doesn’t work very well, either. Recently a son visited and brought some unusual flavored jelly beans. After a few minutes of exchanging pleasantries he carefully selected a jelly bean and held it out to me. He placed it in my hand while giving me the directions to place it in my mouth and identify the substance. Cautiously, I put it in my mouth and methodically moved it around to hit all three of my taste buds, while concentrating on trying to determine the taste. Eyes were fixed on my efforts. When I finally announced that it tasted like soap, wide eyes and surprised looks greeted my answer. Mister “I can’t smell anything, or identify the taste” nailed the answer to the mystery.

Well, my son and family quickly recovered and selected a second mystery bean. Whispers and body language told me they were carefully selecting a flavor that would challenge the most astute tasters in all of the land. The chosen bean was confidently handed to me and I quickly tossed my head back as I popped that bean into my mouth. As the flavor hit my taste buds, it was propelled outward and landed on the counter amid a generous coating of saliva. As I grabbed a towel to free my tongue of the terrible taste, my actions were greeted by an hilarious uproar from my family.

I couldn’t identify the taste, except to say that it was nasty. I have never tasted sardines before and I doubt I will. Type in the content of your new page here.

Strange Sounds Dennis J. Kear

You have heard about my difficulty identifying smells, yesterday. Shea’s writing prompt, which I will get to in a moment, reminded me of a recent incident in a rental car that was similar to the thumping sound in Shea’s prompt. We had landed at Pittsburgh International Airport, claimed our baggage, signed for the rental car, loaded our luggage into the trunk and off we went heading south for West Virginia. Barely onto Route 22 leaving the vast airport my lovely wife asked if I heard that strange sound. Sound, I was concentrating on road signs, heavy traffic, road construction and getting to our destination. That is how the male, especially this male, is wired. However, I resurrected my sensitive side and calmly remarked to my concerned wife, “What sound?” She repeated her question and immediately I could sense her mounting concern and stress.

Suddenly, I spotted a pull off area amid the construction barriers and swerved off the road stopping on the shoulder out of the traffic flow. After placing the transmission in park I exited the vehicle and circled around the back of the car looking at the tires for a sign of trouble and the thumping sound. Just as I rounded the back of the car and could see the passenger’s side I spotted the source of the mysterious thumping or wrapping sound. My wife’s raincoat belt extended through the car door jam and was flapping in the wind against the outside of the car. I quickly solved the problem by drawing my hunting knife from my boot and slicing off the coat belt. The problem was solved and the strange wrapping sound eliminated.

Now if you believe that solution, I have some great land in Florida I want to sell you. How did I get a knife on the plane? Why would I carry a hunting knife on a vacation trip? Besides, I do not wear boots, and especially not while flying.

What I really did, was open the car door and raise the mud-splattered belt in front of my wife while I calmly told her that the it was caught in the door and the wind flapped it against the cars’ exterior. Her concern about getting stuck on the road immediately vanished and I was, once again, a hero.

My gosh, time is running out and I haven’t got to Shea’s writing prompt about a thumping sound in the trunk of a rental car. I just say that the sound was our daughter pounding to get our attention, so we would let her out of the suitcase.

Famous Dave’s Dennis J. Kear

The word famous identifies the referent as one who is noted for something. Dave’s restaurant is clearly noted for barbeque and ribs based on the cues from the menu and the wall décor. Previous fellow diners are quick to comment that the ribs are great or get I always get the pulled pork. Hmm! Do I want someone pulling my pork and then serving it to me?

After select a dish I know I will like I gaze around at the teachers dining at one of our summer institute lunches. Dave is famous for barbeque and ribs. Each of us is noted for something. What might that be? Of course you can’t answer that question for yourself. I would be interested in knowing what gift each of these educators believe I possess. Jeff, the self-described whale lover, could be noted for his sacred writing fetish. Tonya is the tech wizard who seems to have, yet, another way to solve every tech problem we encounter. Kayla has her cheers. “Thank you! Thank you, very much!” said in our best Elvis voices. Melanie has written and shared some delightful personal experiences, as has Mary. Surely, she hasn’t taught that long. Mary was the first to dig down deep and share from the deep recesses of her heart. Amy V has organizer written all over her. She had the brain food chore settled so quickly and then jumped at the chance to be on the events committee. Go, Amy, go-ooooo!

Shelley’s author’s chair reading Babar accompanied by her son on the piano was dynamite. So Shelley is creative and has a talented musician in the family. Holly is resourceful. Maybe it was the Montana upbringing. I can see her in Walgreen’s asking for film canisters and scouring her house that will arouse the sense of smell and generate some writing. Shea has been quiet so far. Her talent is still hiding from me, but she is on the spot tomorrow for the writing prompt. I’m expecting some good things in the morning. Amy M has a cute cheerleader way about her. She’s mellow and quiet and then suddenly she springs into action. This morning we stared out the window watching the rain pour down in sheets, when Amy leaped to her feet with a shriek as she dashed out the classroom door mumbling in frustration that she left the moon roof open on her husband’s car. Joe appears to feel out of place, but he dives deep with his writing. Julie is the only middle school teacher, but she has a way with words. She’s going to share a piece soon that will pull our hearts into the throat. Steve has a confident air and he borders on humor and surprise in his comments and writing. He wears bold language quite well. Raylin had to be a mathematics teacher. She is precise and wants her world to be that way. Keep asking those questions, Raylin and Melanie. Bonnie’s forte hasn’t quite emerged as yet. She has leaped into the electronic portfolio work with both feet. I am excited with the possibilities with Steve, Shelley, Julie and Bonnie spearheading that effort.

Our TCs are awesome. I can’t imagine a summer institute with Sally’s teacher demonstration. I always like my first play-dough pencil holder and then she says destroy that first draft. Tear it up! I know those words are coming, but darn it, Sally. That first draft was good. Why do I forget so quickly once I get to that third draft? Shelly is a kindergarten surprise. She wears a constant smile as she leads us down the language road. Efficient Sherry is on top of everything it seems. How does she think of every detail before we get there?

Dennis is so handsome, intelligent, and youthful. How can he be such a wonderful professor with so much experience and wit? Oops! Someone else has to testify about my strengths.

A Little Piece of Heaven Raylin Ledbetter

This life changing event has quite a long introduction. It all began two years and three months before the actual event. My husband and I had been married just under a year when I started asking THE question…”when do you want to have children?” I knew I was ready anytime; I just had to wait until he was ready. I have many nieces and nephews and had helped raise the first two in the family, so I had an inkling of what I was getting into. Allen hemmed-and-hawed for quite some time. I had been pushing pretty hard for awhile and was getting frustrated by not getting anywhere with him. So I dropped the topic and just backed off. .

Well to my surprise, he actually rolled over in bed a few months later and asked THE question…”Do you want to start trying?” Well, duh, I thought to myself, but I just beamed up at him and said an emphatic, “YES!”

So thus began our journey of trying to have a baby. All did not go as smoothly as I thought it might. What I didn’t understand was the fact that my mother had been fertile-myrtle, and I was not! It must be Allen. I gently approached the subject. I told him that it had been several months with no success and that something might be wrong. The easiest check the doctors can do is the male sperm count; the female checks are much more involved and costly. Well, after some talking and convincing he finally agreed. I went to the hospital, got the specimen cup, and even agreed to take it back for him (he was fortunate enough to be able to do it all at home). So the blessed (or cursed, depending on who’s telling it) day came. Allen filled the cup; I hot-footed it over to the hospital, and went home to await the results so we could begin treatment to help us get pregnant.

However, the results were not what I had expected. Allen’s count was something for him to gloat about…which means the problem lies with me. I was crushed. I could hardly believe that my mother was so easily impregnable and I am damaged goods. I bawled and apologized to Allen for being the problem. He was so wonderful. He held me tight and said there was nothing wrong with me and told me that all was not lost; if we didn’t get pregnant, we could adopt or do whatever I wanted for children. So I called my OBGYN and got an appointment to find out what was the problem. It was scary. It could be something that was not fixable. I might never be able to have my own children.

The doctor was very nice. She totally relaxed me and even made me laugh. She encouraged me that it could be something minor but even if it wasn’t, there were many possibilities and to keep my hopes up. Blood work was okay, so that possibility was eliminated. Next I went for a sonogram to see if my ovaries and uterus were normal. We found that I had Poly-cystic Ovary Syndrome. My ovaries did not release the egg and it turned into a small cyst inside the ovary. Questions flooded my mind. Is this treatable? Can it be corrected? Will I have to have surgery or will medicine help? Will I still be able to get pregnant, and if so, will I be able to carry the baby?

The doctor explained that since I was still having regular menstrual cycles, we would first try a medicine that would help to regulate my body’s hormones to see if the ovaries would release the eggs. What is unique about this medicine is that it is really for diabetics to help regulate their insulin, but research has shown that it also helps regulate the female hormones for the menstrual cycle. By that point, I was ready to try anything; so we stopped by the pharmacy on the way home and I started the medicine immediately.

Two months went by…nothing. I put a call in to the doctor and she agreed to see me again to possibly start fertility pills –a very low dosage, because we didn’t want quadruplets. She didn’t have any openings for a couple of weeks, so I took her first appointment available. In the meantime, my period was due again. So I prepared myself for the disappointment that would be coming any day. One day late—‘okay, sometimes this happens and it is just annoying not know when it will be coming’, so just to reassure myself that the awful thing would appear, I got out a pregnancy test. ‘If I don’t have it in the morning, I will check’, I thought, not that anything would be there, but just to reassure myself that ‘Aunt Flow’ was still coming to visit. Two days late—‘alright just to make sure I am having my visitor, which I am sure to get; I will just go ahead and take my last pregnancy test.’ With a trembling hand, and a down-cast heart, I used the pregnancy test. Now the wait. Two full minutes must pass for the test to process, but it wasn’t 30 seconds later and the test was reading “Pregnancy.”

Oh, my gosh!! What is the percentage of error on these things?! Is this really happening? I called my husband into the bathroom. I handed him the stick. “We’re pregnant?” he asked. “I guess so,” was all I could reply. There were so many butterflies in my stomach and my heart was beating a million miles a minute. I couldn’t believe that we were going to have a baby, and we didn’t even need the fertility pills. Just the thought of that must have scared my eggs into action! I wanted to shout it out to everyone and keep it all to myself at the same time. Now the doctor’s appointment could be my first check instead of more interventions.

Delivery from Heaven Raylin Ledbetter

Getting pregnant for my husband and I was no easy task. We had lab specimens, blood work, sonograms, and medicines. The whole process was stressful, worrisome, and altogether unpleasant. The end result, however, was anything but. In fact, after getting pregnant, I had no problems during the entire pregnancy and even felt glowing. I was ready for this baby, but I was a little scared too. I didn’t know what kind of mom I would make and if I would make all the right decisions, but we were having a baby. There was no going back.

The blessed day came out of nowhere. I was on spring break and my parents came to visit since I could no longer travel being only two weeks away from my due date. It was their final day with me, Good Friday. Mom was having everyone to her house for Easter and she needed to go home to prepare. We were having lunch and the little pains that had been only a nuisance all morning were getting closer together and starting to make me catch my breath a little. I mentioned them to my husband but told him they were probably nothing since they really didn’t hurt. He went back to work, and my parents took me back to my house. They noticed I was a little discomforted, and asked me about it. I told them I had been having contractions, and they were about three minutes apart, but that they didn’t hurt. My mom advised me to call the doctor. So I did. I got the doctor on call—not my doctor, and she advised me that if it continued over the next hour, to come on in to the hospital. I didn’t want to deliver without my doctor there!! But I did as instructed; an hour later my parents and I were gathering my bag that I hadn’t packed yet, and heading were off to the hospital.

As I arrived, I checked in and headed up to the maternity ward. They hooked me up to all kinds of machines and checked my dilation—good contractions, but I was only dilated to a four. So they had me walk around for about an hour and then hooked me up again—good contractions still and now dilated to five and a half, almost six. They walked me around for another hour and called the doctor to come and check me herself. So they hooked me up and I waited for the doctor. When my doctor walked into the room, I almost cried with relief. She was here! I still wasn’t having any pain, but I was dilating and contracting. She asked me if I wanted to have a baby tonight or wait. So I decided—TONIGHT!

My parents decided to stick around…they weren’t missing this for anything! My husband arrived, the doctor broke my water, and hell began. The pain was bad. Livable, but bad. I got an epidural---awe that feels so good. Then the doctor said it was time. Already?! The pushing began. I think I pushed for an eternity. Not much progress, but the doctor kept saying “looking good.” “Okay, let’s turn off her epidural, and up the Pitocin,” the doctor requested. What?!!! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. More pain; more pushing. My God, when is this going to be over! Snip, snip. I didn’t even feel the episiotomy; the pain had gone far beyond that point. Okay one more good push. Gush! Out came the baby! He was quietly crying, but was quickly soothed by lying on my chest. He was beautiful and perfect, and I immediately loved him with all my heart. The rest is kind of a blur. The best part was here, and he was healthy and safe and close to my heart, my own piece of heaven.

Julie Johnson**
 * Thank you Mother

Thank you Mother. I don’t know how many times in my life I have heard comments such as, “I hope I don’t grow up to be like my mom.” Those kind of comments always made me cringe because just the opposite is true of me—Mom, I want to be just like you. Someday, when God blesses me with children of my own, I desire to be the mother to them that you are to me.

Not everyone is fortunate to experience the deep relationship with a mother that I cherish. I tell you everything, I always have; no secrets are hidden. You never judged me when I messed up, you supported my dreams, and you taught me sacrificial love.

I will always remember that summer before my 7th grade year. Every single night, during the wee hours, you heard a little tap-tap on your door and a tiny voice that whispered through tears, “Mom, my stomach hurts.” Never was this voice met with, “It’ll be okay, try to sleep.” Instead, night after night, you got up, shuffled your weary feet to the couch and we would sit for hours. Sometimes we talked, other times we sat in silence. When the pain was really bad, you slipped into bed with me and I was embraced in your arms and sacrificial love. The feelings of loneliness and friendship difficulties, the brunt of my pain, were met with understanding and an empathetic heart. You didn’t try to “fix me,” but instead shared a piece of yourself. You too had a lonely summer back in your school days, spending reflective, quiet hours outside pulling split ends from your long, straight, hair. Those times in life come and go.

Mom, I love you. Thank you for teaching me about life, for being my support and friend, and for validating my feelings and who I am. If I can be a mom like you someday and experience the relationship that we share with my own daughter, I will be a happy woman!


 * Princess Gone Bad**
 * By Bonnie K. Lane
 * "Little Ms. Goody-to-shoes" was the name my niggling baby brother would hurl at me after he received parental guidance! I was the good little girl who very seldom needed helpful direction from my parents or teachers. Teachers had always flattered my parents with wonderful compliments of their darling little girl. Unlike my brother, I had never spent time in the principal’s office as a child. Not a verbal warning, a mark on the board, even a stern look was ever warranted. I was the peaceful little Ms. Princess who was willing to please.

One warm spring day as the multitude of rambunctious children dashed out onto the playground, a green monster that I had never seen before roared its ugly mouth in not so princess like manner. Was it anger, jealousy, or just mean spirited childishness? I’m not sure. Out of the innocent, shy, polite little princess turned monster, came a not so princess like melody, "Lisa and Allen are kissin in the tire." I scurried around the playground and spread the juicy tidbit to eager ears. Tears welled up in my friend, yes my friend, Lisa’s eyes as she darted to the comfort of Mrs. Walker’s arms. Allen glanced around in bewilderment with that dimwitted, but cute look on his face, no clue of what had just happened. Giggles and grins were spreading through the playground like wild fire. Snickers and comments floated through the air. Whispers from one ear to the next where followed by gawking eyes focusing on Lisa and Allen. All of a sudden a subtle hush came over the playground as the children parted like the Red Sea to make way for Ms. Delborne. Ms. Delborne was a stout, gray haired lady who wore thick round glasses that framed stone cold eyes. Her squatty, thick legs lent themselves to her penguin like waddle. Her massive frame was short in stature but intimidating to the impish children she dealt with. She marched straight toward me as I trembled with fear cowardly looking away. Avoiding her gaze did not help me escape. Not wanting to focus on the disfigured giant of a penguin, shame would not allow me to remain in my vagrant state of mind. I timidly turned to see Ms. Delborne staring down at me with her hands perched on her hips, her leather lips drawn taut, and her sinister eyes burning a whole right through me. Her stumpy finger pointed and motioned for me to follow her. Not a word was uttered, as I sulked toward the building. Only the thud squeak, thud squeak of Mrs. Delborne’s shoes could be heard as she marched me to the teachers’ workroom. Windows, with shanty blinds encased this intimidating room. When someone was taken into the "glass cage" the blinds would be drawn so know one could see the beatings begin, so we imagined. Wild thoughts bounced in my mind as I began to wonder if this little Ms. Princess would make it out alive.

She pulled out a chair and pointed. That was my cue to sit, and like a well-trained puppy, I did. Paralyzed by fear I barely noticed the intense sweat begin to bead on my brow. Ms. Delborne circled around me like a lion does its prey. Silence was stabbing at my heart, as I desired to be invisible. My hands were clammy and my legs began to shake. Waiting for the gauntlet to be cast, a lump began to rise in my throat. Still, silence echoed in the room. The erratic beat of my heart was deafening. My eyes fluttered as the room slowly began to swirl. Like a wet noodle, I slumped over in my chair and collapsed to the ground. The sounds of Ms. Delborne’s husky voice brought me back to reality. Dazed and bewildered I gaped about the room. Regaining my focus, Ms Delborne chortled, "Your guilt has done you in, I think that’s punishment enough". She lifted me to my feet set me on the chair and made me promise never to say mean things again. As she opened the door, inquisitive eyes gawked. Ms. Delborne ushered a pale sweat covered faced, barely able to stand, physically haggard child out of the room. As she escorted me to the nurse’s station, Ms. Delborne clearly stated that no one else needed to know what had just transpired between us. In trepidation, this little naughty Ms. Princess shook her head and never uttered a word.

My Big Brother By Bonnie K. Lane Many events in my life have molded me into the person I am today. One such occasion takes me back to 1989 when my big brother graduated from Boot Camp. Dad and Mom loaded their big blue Buick with our suitcases snacks for the road as well as my baby brother and I. We were ready to embark on our journey to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. We were excited to see my big brother graduate, but at the same moment sadness crept into our hearts as we realized it would be the last time we would spend with him before he set out for ATI in Virginia. We finally reached the hotel we were staying at and collapsed with fatigue, or was it from hours of boredom, maybe both. After a few minutes to freshen up we headed for the Base. I don’t recall very many events from the time we hopped back into Big Blue until we joined my brother for Sunday Church. I vaguely recall the small sanctuary where we worshipped. What I do distinctly remember was my big brother standing amongst several other men in uniforms holding a Hymnal. Yes, a Hymnal. My big brother had joined the choir. That probably doesn’t seem unusual or strange for anyone other than me. But I happen to know what my big brother sounds like when he sings, and it isn't an angel. Its closer to the screeching sound brakes make when they are worn down to metal on metal. Or the searing painful sound an elephant might make as its tusks are being forcibly removed. It may even resemble the erring sound that emanates from a cat with a firecracker tied to its tail and an 11-year old boy chasing after it with a lighter. As I gazed in mindless confusion of what he was doing up they’re embarrassing himself; a gentle voice came to my judgmental heart. It told me that Tim was worshipping the Lord with a pure uninhibited heart. He had learned to give his love in all forms. Though his voice may not grace me with pleasure, the Lord enjoyed every mutilated note he sang. Why was that life changing you may be wondering. Because I realized that even though you may not be the best at something, God doesn't care. He just wants your whole willing heart. Pure, uninhibited love for him. God wants us to love Him with all our heart, all our soul, all our strength, our entire mind, and I was to love my big brother Tim.

Packing It In By Sally Kimball The dreaded day finally dawned, dragging the oppressive August heat with it like so many pounds of record albums. Although it was too early for our volunteer moving team, Teachers Who Work for Beer, to muster its forces, I was already madly throwing things into boxes. Still. After two weeks. I hadn’t even thought about any cleaning, and we were leaving today, as soon as the Ryder truck, two pick-ups, a trailer and the van were loaded. I suppose the new owner, whoever that might be, will have to understand my lack of enthusiasm for all things housekeeping. Besides, I’d been busy packing—constantly packing. Rooms were stacked with boxes, packed to the ceiling, or so it seemed. “I hate moving!” I vehemently declared, although this was only the second move of my adult life. No one heard me as I stomped from room to room trying to arrange too much junk into neat, identifiable piles for the schleppers. I recalled watching my grandmother’s household move when she and her maiden sister of 88 years left the house where she had birthed and raised two children. The Spots Boys, strapping bachelor brothers, corn-fed Iowa farm hands who made more money doing just about anything else—hauling garbage, raising barns, digging septic holes and ditches—came bright and early that Fall morning to pile Granny’s things onto their huge, tilt-bed truck for the transfer across town. Their first job was to move a full-size, upright freezer from my parents’ U-Haul into ours—a job which the Spots Boys dispatched in short order, hefting the huge appliance easily between them while my husband followed helplessly behind with his hand truck. The image of the Spots Boys wrestling my grandmother’s spinet piano up the long, gangly, 2x12 makeshift gangplank onto the skewed truck bed is something I’ll never forget. I fully expected to see the sofa where my great aunt spent the entire move primly perched with her paper sack of worldly items on her lap, pass up the ramp next—with her still on it. Where were the Spots Boys when you needed them? I was brought back to rude reality when our “crack” moving team arrived. I returned to boxing as a chorus of cans snapped open in perfect unison. Once the crew got organized, I couldn’t pack new boxes fast enough as they ferried off the old. They swarmed over our things like locusts, devouring and carrying off everything, the mundane and the vital alike. “Don’t take that!” I yelled, pointing to a large black trash bag. “That’s the garbage.” I returned it to a pile cordoned off in the dining room. While a pack of children ran squealing in the yard and the Sherpas drank and laughed over some joke in the truck, I sulked, fuming and packing more boxes and hating my task, hating them for their insensitivity. This had been our first home—both our children had been born in this town, played in this yard, clambered into the school bus at the end of this driveway. I didn’t want to leave. “Don’t take that! It’s the trash!” I snarled as I rescued the black bag from the heap in the yard. By now, the house stood nearly empty and our possessions sat “half-stacked” on our front lawn. Six men heaved our baby grand, strapped onto a dolly, on board. I was relieved to see that the ramps are sturdy and wide on those rental trucks. On my fifth pass through the yard, I snagged the black bag, shrieking as nicely as I could, “DON’T TAKE THIS! IT’S TRASH!” and whisked it away. The Dog Day dragged on, my nerves as raw and frayed as fresh hamburger. I was grateful when the van was packed and I was allowed to forge ahead with our cat and houseplants. There, I cried. During the three-hour drive, I wept over losing our first house, our children’s birthplace, our friends. Although I hadn’t lost the memories, they seemed forever buried at the bottom of some box marked “bathroom misc.” I already hated the “new house.” I vowed I would always hate the “new house.” I arrived in the seething heat of that early August evening, greeted by the clay dust indigenous to south-central-Kansas-wheatfields-turned-mid-‘70s-ranch-style-homes. “Welcome to Rancho de Boeing,” I mumbled to the cat who’d spent nearly the whole trip appropriately yowling from under a back seat festooned with house plants. She had the right idea; she refused to leave the relative security of the van for several hours. I swept out the unfinished basement, the temporary holding tank for nearly everything, and gingerly removed the largest dead spider I have ever seen in captivity. Soon after, the skeleton crew arrived. Not many of our friends could accompany us to the bitter end, but a few were able to make the sojourn and help unload those things that would be impossible to move by ourselves. Finally, after managing to set up beds for the kids and throwing down a mattress for us, we called it quits near 11:00 p.m. While the exhausted kids tried out their new rooms, Steve and I stood on our new front porch staring dully as a B-1 skimmed over and with a body-slamming roar, barely cleared our roof, its landing lights flickering on a black trash bag in the back of the truck.

The Retreat Shea McGuire It was early September so the weather was still warm. It would be a little while longer before the leaves would turn various shades of orange and brown and be shed by the trees. It was time for yet another singles retreat. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy retreats but after a few years of not finding that special someone I began to lose hope. I did relish the time spent with friends from other states and meeting new ones. This time I decided that I would just go and have fun without worrying about who I would or wouldn’t meet. And anyway the retreat would be in Wichita, Kansas, a city that I had never visited. We arrived after things had commenced. There was music, dancing and karaoke. I like to sing, but when I think of karaoke, Chinese water torture comes to mind. Well, it was not long before a friend wanted to sing a song together and of course, she is a great singer. I agreed to do it anyway which is totally out of character for me. We decided to get a bunch of girls to sing //The Locomotion// with us. Afterwards this very cute guy with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes struck up a conversation with me. He asked me on a date for the next day to a Wranglers game. I agreed and we met the next day along with some friends of mine. We had such a splendid time laughing and talking that we were oblivious to the happenings of the game. I just remember thinking this is so weird because we just clicked. By the end of the game, I had smiled and laughed so much that my face hurt. Before I knew it, the game was over and the firework show had begun. As the nighttime sky was illuminated by the dazzling reds, blues, and whites, I felt as if I had known him all my life. That day he became my hero. When I inadvertently hooked a staple in my thumb from a bag of peanuts, he was able to remove it without injury which I really appreciated. He also saved me from the evil, wayward beetle that had decided to attach itself to my shirt. I am proud to say that I did not run screaming into the night. (I hate insects with a passion.) My husband has been my hero ever since that day in many ways.